Paper, Feather, Stone
by AtheneMiranda
Summary: (Ch. 8. Mogryo loses it...) Pre-game. Mene and Mogryo have been called to the strangest place on Gaia. Will they stay sane? (WARNING: Contains INTELLIGENT moogles with GENUINE personalities, and swearing, insanity, Stiltzkin and Kuja).
1. Made In Burmecia

**A.N.:** Moogles. They're pink, they're fuzzy, they're surreal, they save your games...and Athene Miranda does not buy it for a second. Na-nah. I want to know what's really going on there, why they really stand in odd places writing diaries, and what they really think of the other denizens of Gaia - so I cornered one and asked him...

This starts very roughly a month and a half before the game. A very attentive reader may notice that a few details are off - moogles in the wrong places, that sorta thing. That's because I'm going to put it all back later; worry not.

Isil Caran is the 'red moon', the name is shameless Elvish. Moogles, Burmecians, et cetera supplied by Squaresoft, a few crossover jokes supplied by Douglas Adams because I couldn't resist it, fic supplied by Mene and I. Only the latter two agreed to this arrangement; the others just have to put up with it.

To the dear dear person who asked if The Diary Of Natalie would ever get an update, the answer is somewhere between no and maybe. I'm more proud of that fic than anything else I've posted, but it feels, well, _finished_. But if I ever need an angst-outlet that badly again (given the circumstances, I hope not) she could well speak to me again. My thanks to you for asking, though...and no, I can't believe you were the only reviewer, either. I guess this chapter is dedicated to you.

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THE DIARY OF MENE

**#1 - Made In Burmecia**

Lindblum Industrial District

I guess this is goodbye.

It happens to a lot of us this time of year. Time's up, kit, grab your gear and get out of town. They like to keep us on our toes. Besides, there's always enough of us pleading for transfer, enough places like Esto Gaza where no-one ever sticks it out for over a year. I've been lucky enough to get two seasons in Lindblum, keeping the Diary in the Industrial District. But now Mognet wants me up north someplace.

This'll be my fifth season. Not bad for a runt like me, eh? They say twelve's a good career; Noggy's been going for at least sixteen, but he's had the sedate postings these past few, Treno, Daguerreo, you know the sort of place. I've had all the weird ones myself. I started off at Summit Station, which was pretty complicated. Everyone was always coming and going; you rarely saw the same place twice. And I heard so many traveller's tales! People came from everywhere, moving from one side of the mountain to the other, and I wrote about everyone, the little kids on their first journeys, chewing their toys and howling _"Are we nearly there yet?"_, the seasoned pirates hocking the most exotic things across the border, usually stuffed in the middle of a South Gate Bundt Cake (you wouldn't believe what you can hide in a bundt cake…), everyone. That was fun, but pretty exhausting. It's still a boom-zone three years on; they sent two moogles last year and still turned a massive profit. I guess travel books are the 'in thing'.

The Iifa Tree was a doddle after that workwise, but the dark side of Isil Caran would've been a less weird place to keep a Diary. It was completely empty, especially compared to Summit Station - I had to write about sparrows and gargants most days. Sometimes no-one'd come along for a month or more. I saw nobody from November to the middle of February (except Stiltzkin, but there's no accounting for _him_). I hope they sold a few of my nature notes, 'cause everything else I wrote that year was pretty fucked-up - that place got into my dreams sometimes, and on the really bad days it got out of them too. I ought to ask the Central about my output, but I'm too worried about how I'd react if I found out they'd shifted 300 copies of The Amazing Adventures Of Trimalchio The Fire-Spitting Gargant or something else I couldn't remember writing. I tell you, I could've spent the whole year high on kupo nuts and not noticed any difference…

Then Lindblum. They certainly know how to rock down here. I've been working in the bar on Cid VIII Street ever since I got here - I turned up before Mopli left (I ran from that tree when I got my reassignment slip) and got pulled into his going-away party. When I (finally) woke up the next morning he'd already left for Oeilvert and Lilias was waving a six-month resident journalist contract at me. I'm still not sure when it was I signed that (before or after Moodon turned up with the goldfish…?), but I recall the next three slips well enough. I just love the place. It's a great pitch; all the engineering students come here and have those garbled, rapid-fire conversations that I've never understood a word of but I feel smarter just listening to. Add to that the town crowd…well, let's just say that I don't think there's anywhere with a higher standard of joke, unless you're adverse to anything above G-rated. Lilias is the absolute queen - I've seen stage-shows less dramatic than her put-downs. Plus there's that amazing mix of people you only get in cities; tradesmen, bandits, fortune-seekers (they never know quite what they want but what they get is usually female and negotiably affectionate for some reason), paupers, aristocrats, and tired, old men. I'd seen them all by the time the moons set on my second night here, and I stayed another two years on the buzz of it. I've done everything from taking scientific dictations to keeping minutes for a crime mob. But now it's over. The End.

"Be seeing you, Lindblum," I mutter as I check through my pack one last time. Clothes crammed on top, some of the warm ones I haven' worn for years - I might need them that far north. Eight weeks' supply of paper and ink, with deliveries arranged for the rest of the year. Proof if it were needed of what city life does to your forward planning ability - I've been getting soft, buying notebooks retail when I'm low. Plenty of handkerchiefs, thankyou Grandma Pickle, and greater thanks to Lilias for washing the smell out yesterday. Enough books to last the journey; Mogrich's 'The Alexandrian Monarchy' for when I'm feeling dry, a couple of novels ('The Shadow Of The Vampire' by Monev - he wrote that up at Mount Gulug, now there's a place to inspire a good horror story - and something by a human writer called Laudo Wren. Oh well, give it a go…) and a little something to help me settle in. 'The Outer Continent On Forty-Two Gil A Day' by Stiltzkin. Wish to gods he'd've got it out before my last trip north…

But then, if he had, we probably wouldn't have met like that. When else would you get two sane moogles half-way up a tree on a snowy winter's night? He was shivering and sneezing, huddling under soaking khakis and only still moving because he'd forgotten how to stop. I had to practically drag him into my shelter and wring him out, and I burned half a forest getting him dry again. He stayed a full three days under sufferance - I wouldn't let him go until his nose stopped dripping. He left when the snow was still falling and the next I heard of him was a letter a month later saying what a great time he'd had, and asking if I'd mind an insert in his book. I guess he's that kind of person, irrepressible, or just plain maddening…

What else is in here? Ah, my treat from Serino; a bagful of kupo nuts! That was most thoughtful of her. I got her something to last, a nice thick scarf for her travelling, because she isn't going to stop travelling any time soon. She got the Alexandrian Airship post! She's quite excited - well, who wouldn't be? She'll get to see a whole country…Airship placements are very coveted, and I'm surprised they gave one to a second-seasoner like her. They've been reserving them for the seniors for six years now, ever since a promising youngster got so hooked on the wanderlust when he spent his first year in an airship that he couldn't hold down a normal job afterwards. Let's see now, some kitten called Stiltzkin… Serino'll be good at it. She's a dedicated diarist, and she picked up enough high-class etiquette in her year at the Castle with the Fabools. She's quite a puzzle, a bit standoffish and pompous at first but really, really kind when you get to know her. I hear Mogki's getting her old placement - he'll love courtly life, he is one hell of a gossip.

I have one last glance around my room. No, I've packed everything already. I shoulder my baggage and flit down the stairs.

It's a sort of finality, I guess. Two years is a long time, and more than any place I've ever lived Lindblum has been a home to me. I know it's not meant to be that way; moogles don't have homes, we just up sticks and leave with a smile when the next job comes along, but then to be honest it's not the city I'll miss but the people I've met here. I've made a lot of friends, and I'll probably never see half of them again. That hurts far more than leaving actual Lindblum; that means very little to me. It's not a bad place, but it's not…my…

"Going so soon, Mene? The Festival hasn't even started yet."

She's leaning against the bar, cool and collected, exactly like it isn't just gone eight am. Even Lilias is still snoring through the walls (in a very ladylike way, of course) and she's noted for never being asleep. But she's standing there in the dawn light, red cloak swirling round her thin grey body, smiling like it's all just a joke and she'll never, never tell you the punchline. "L-lady Freya? What - I thought -"

"Yes, I decide to come a month early this year, get a little practice in round Pinnacle Rocks, you know. You're moving out?"

"Yes." She's a laid-back lady but I think Freya takes the Festival Of The Hunt more seriously than she lets on. She was runner-up to Belna last year, and not by such a great margin, and to come a month early for practice… She means it this year, I guess. She's going for the top. 

She's come here every year I've been here, checking in just before the Festival then leaving as soon as it's finished. She doesn't talk much - or rather she does, but it's always weapons, or politics, or the weather forecast; she never ever talks about herself. She looks to be Burmecian, but I couldn't even swear to that. She's a damn fine fighter; maybe she was in the army once? Oh, I don't know. Does it matter? She's still…my friend…

"Hm. Relief not here yet?" 

"Oh, I'm not being replaced. They decided three moogles was enough to cover Lindblum, because they wanted a second up in Dali."

"_Dali_?" She frowns. "Well…" The slow grin settles on her face again. "So where are you going?"

"Um, it's up north someplace," I reply cagily, knowing the rules about dealing with Mist Continent people but not knowing how they apply to Freya. "It's…in a desert."

"Vube Desert?" she asks sharply.

I take a half-step backwards. "N-no, f-further north than that."

Another little grin. Gods, she scared me then. "I see…" No, she's _still_ scaring me, what _is_ it she's not saying? I wave shyly anyhow, and make for the door.

"Hey." I turn. "Catch this." A - something? - thuds into my cupped hands. "It was a gift to me from a promising young thief, kit. The kind of boy who'd steal fire from the gods then sell it back to them for twice its weight in glory. I think he pulled it out of Treno last year, but that could have just been a rumour…" I unpeel the leather sheath to reveal a shining silver blade fully half the length of my body, decorated and engraved and beautiful. "I don't use them, and it's better for all of us if you get it off the continent for us." I think she sees my expression. "It's a mythril dagger, or 'broadsword' to you I suppose. They're not hard to use; you just point it at the bastard and push. Not an art, not like the lance…" She trails off, dreamily.

"Thanks." I tuck it into my belt reverently. "I really appreciate it."

"Yes. You write to me, kit. All the best." She tips her hat, and I incline my pompom politely as I step out into the big wide world.

There's people out here even now. They're all morning people, the fast-moving type who never meet your eyes, in case you meet theirs. Gypsy, the alleycat, slinks down the road, probably looking for puppies to menace - she slides round my legs, and I tickle her ears in farewell. I shake her off but she follows me down the steps to the statue anyway. I giggle when she starts chasing pigeons.

The station's empty, except for the attendant snoozing away in a corner. No cab in - guess I'll have to wait a few minutes. I sit down on the bench and pull a book out of the top of my pack. The Stiltzkin. I cast an eye down the contents page. 'Conde Petie - Life In the Mountains.' I never visited there; might make an interesting read. What else? 'Magdalene Forest - The Ruins,' hm…oh. 'The Iifa Tree - A Wonderful Place To Visit,' _damn you Stiltzkin…_ Ah. 'The Desert Palace - Underworld Cathedral.' Page sixty-one. That looks like the place. Let's see…

  


_'I reached the Desert Palace in the middle of the afternoon, late into spring. In the ranks   
of imposing, awe-inspiring or landscape-defining architecture it simply doesn't figure;   
the exterior of the Palace is merely a large hole in the sand. Dusty mosaic was chipped   
across the cave floor; maybe it shone once, a long time ago, but now it is nothing more   
than a faint splash of colour on the hard ground. It's a sad truth that most of the truly   
great buildings outside the Mist Continent are abandoned and neglected, but too few   
travellers ever come by to pity these shells of the past…'_

  


The tracks rattle, so I put the book away. I love Stiltzkin's prose-style, he just sweeps you off on the waves of his journeys. I wish I was that good; I'm far too dreamy when I write, always chewing over little things and missing all the good bits. A cab pulls up, so I board, careful as ever on the gap above the platform -

- and am nearly knocked backwards by a flying ball of fuzz!

"_KUPO!?_" it exclaims, fluttering up and unravelling. Sleek, dark locks of fur unwind down his face -

I blink coldly. "Artemecion?" Looks like he's found a new trick, too, the jerk - last time I saw him it was hair-crimping. What'll he do next, dye his pompom? No wonder they made him postboy; if they left him too long anyplace he'd get thrown out. "What are - _you_ - doing here?"

"Looking for you." He grabs me by the paw and yanks me into the car. I shake free and punch the button for the castle, whilst he smoothes down the (excessive amount of) fluff on his forearm.

"Me?" Gods, I've only had this dagger for five minutes and already I want to start using it. 

He rummages in his holdall. "Yep. You got this." He waves a plump, brown package at me. I take it, curiosity briefly overcoming native spite, and I carefully open the flap.

Huh?

It's green, whatever it is. Green and blue and silky…there's tons of this stuff, pouring out in waves like a localised waterfall, and I try in vain to keep it all in my arms. It's tumbling everywhere, brushing across the not-entirely-grime-free floor before I can possibly catch all the tails. Finally, it stills. I shake the weird bundle, trying to fathom out its meaning - and a piece of paper drops out of it and lands by my foot.

_**From Stiltzkin To Mene**_

Heard you were hitting the trail again, and I thought   
you could do with one of these. You can use it for almost   
anything - trust me, I've tried!   
Have a good trip!

Hm. Hey, friend, would you mind explaining something next time?

I have another go at the thing, working my way around the edges one by one. Artemecion is literally twitching with suppressed nosiness by the time I find the label.

**RICH COTTON LINED WITH PURE SILK   
EXTREMELY WATER ABSORBENT   
MADE IN BURMECIA**

Oh. That's…strange. But I guess I can trust Stiltzkin.

"What _is_ it?" Artemecion squeaks in agitation.

"I think it's some sort of…towel."

"Ha." He's pushed the Arsehole lever again. I stuff the thing back in its packet and position it carefully at the top of my bag, within arms reach in an emergency. I can trust Stiltzkin… "Who was that from?" he asks venomously, blatantly delving for a new gossip target.

I straighten myself to the nearest I can get to ramrod with all this on my back. "Stiltzkin."

He's still gawking ten seconds later when the cab pulls in at the castle. "Hey! Wait up!" he howls, flapping along in my wake. I stride up to the dock, nod primly at the watchman, then turn into the red plush hallway. "Hey!" I sigh wearily and turn on one heel. "I - I've got to catch an airship now."

"Yes?"

"So - goodbye, right, Mene?"

"Right." He shifts his feet. "See you around, Arte_me_cion." I head off to the lift before he can reply, smirking just ever-so-slightly.

Something about that man always sets my teeth on edge. He's so slimy, always clawing for some way to pull himself up at someone else's expense. Rumour-mongering, preening, talking down at me - I hate it! Plus, he's vain. Thinks he's pretty so does all that crap to his body in order to prove it. It's so - dishonest, it's enough to take the shine off the post! I wish they'd give him a post somewhere crazy like Oeilvert for five years, that'd be the only way to shut him up!

The guard waves me past him, through to the lift. I descend, gingerly clutching the rim, looking out into the castle one last time. The marble hallways fall away beneath me, and the cold stone of the underground tunnels comes up to meet my feet. You've been good to me, Lindblum. I've had fun here, and met so many of your wonderful people… But somehow, you've never really been mine. It's more like it was at Summit Station, all the people going back and forth and me left in the middle, scribbling away, trying to catch each day before it leaves me for good. Your buzzing presence isn't mine; however long I listen I won't ever become part of the noise. You're not my - not my…

It's there again, just out of reach. That place I'm looking for, the strange feeling of peace and serenity and soft flowing water, hovering above me like a forgotten dream… I don't know where it is or what it is or _anything_, but I know I'll know when I get there. I dream about it sometimes, but it escapes my mind before morning every time. All I can remember is the sound of the water…

Serpent's Gate beckons. After that, who knows?

* * *

**T.B.C.**

Case Notes: I always wondered what moogles did for a living, and then I realised Mognet Central could be just a great big scribes-guild-cum-publishing-house. I noticed last time I played that the mailman's name is spelt both "Artemecion" and "Artimecion", which is MOST aggravating to a Licenced Nitpicker like Thene... Square ought to give the moogles to someone who cares...

I think I shall reward the first reviewer who can tell me who Laudo Wren is with the choice of a Diary (ANY character in FFIX, a minor role for preference but a lead if you like, or any in-game moment you'd like told from an odd angle) to be written by me in the near future. Oh come on...!


	2. Black On Red

**A.N.:** yep, I love this kit but he's not mine... Plus I've been hacking Tolkien again - Vairë is the Elvish weaver-angel. There's something pretty Elvish about the Burmecians and Cleyrans. Noldor and Sindar... I guess the fic belongs to me, though. This bit introduces a few people, places and such. Hope someone out there likes it...

Huge thanks to the amazing Persephone for editing this chapter. Love you.

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**#2: Black On Red**

The Red Feather

I quite like the sea. It's soothing, watching the waves lap against the boat, up, rising like a breeze, down, falling like a leaf… It's quiet too, at least up here; it seems that of the six of us I'm the only one who travels at all well. Kuppo's not bad about it, actually, but he usually sleeps half the day. The rest prefer to stay below decks holding onto the furniture, which as Stiltzkin once told me is exactly the wrong thing to do if you're seasick; the deck is the most stable place on a moving ship.

They're a mixed crew, and mainly on the young side. Suzuna's the most experienced of us - she's been out there for eight years, and has been almost as many places as Stiltzkin. She's written some great stuff, mainly novels. She's not a very gregarious moogle; likes to be alone, way out in the country for preference. She's just come from Cleyra Treetrunk, which suited her temperament entirely, the elements buzzing round her and heightening her inspiration. I've spoken with her only briefly - she says she's feeling woozy, but she's probably being polite. I think she wants a bit of time to herself.

Kuppo could not be less like her if he tried. He's - loud. Really loud. I don't know how he ever gets anything written, he spends so much time having fun. He's a pure journalist, actually; writes up everything even remotely interesting that he sees in high-energy short-form, and does it very very well. I bought a couple of his anthologies last year and found them amazingly diverse and interesting. He sees an angle in everything - catches the nub of a situation and leads you straight to it. I don't know anyone who writes quite like him. Trouble is, he can't sit still for more than ten straight seconds. He spent last season in Alexandria and he got _everywhere_, treating the town like a beat not a placement, walking the backstreets, coasting the bars, talking to anyone with a tale to tell. His Diary was flat-out brilliant but he drove Mognet Central up the wall - the mailman'd spend all day looking for him, then find him in the HQ of the Proletarian Patrons Movement, or the upper room of the Morning Star or somewhere. And, well, let's just say I heard that he didn't respond too positively to their requests for restraint. Got worse would be more like it. You could've known that after that jaunt they'd do something to - spite? Punish? Teach him a lesson? I don't know…anyway, I thought they'd give him something dire this year but I had not reckoned on the Donna Plains. That kit is going to _die_ this year; he will have absolutely no-one to listen to except himself, and will not be able to indulge in his usual quantity of nightlife, or indeed _any_. Visions cross my mind of Kuppo starting forest fires so he can write about the people who put them out…I _hope_ it won't happen but I'm not confident…

A gull wheels overhead, ringing out a warcry. "Leave off," growls the boatswain, waving a rapier at its tail. The sailors are obviously more cordial to moogles than birds, though they don't talk to us much. We don't bother them either; there's too much that humans don't understand. The Red Feather's crew are mainly Burmecian (the cook is from Lindblum) like a lot of sailors - they're used to rough weather, for one thing, and they know the Outer Continent surprisingly well, because of fish stocks of something I think. I was pleasantly surprised to find that a lot of them carry those odd shawls, and put them to a variety of uses. Jay, the boatswain, wears one around his neck and uses it as a swordbelt when it's not needed for anything else. It's black, a symbolism I find slightly chilling, but it does look good with his all-red outfit.

He notices my attention. "Mornin', lad," he hollers, lifting a single grey finger in what to a Burmecian sailor is a considerably respectful greeting. "Takin' the ayre, are ye?"

I pause for a second to insert all the consonants. "Yes, sir. I - I like the ocean in the morning." He moves closer to me and stares out to sea.

"Hn." Something out south catches his eye, and he raises a telescope to his face with a rangy arm. He extends it with a brusque flick of the wrist. "Huh, looks like you won't be enjoyin' it much longer, lad. We'll be there by sunset if t'wind 'olds."

"We will?" I can see nothing but water in any direction.

"Aye. Look over there." He gestures at the seemingly empty space that he had been studying.

"I can't see anything."

"What about the 'aze?" Now he mentioned it, it did look a little misty in the far distance… I nod slowly. "Tha's land. You wanna see?"

I take the proffered telescope gingerly, and take a look. "What? I can't -"

He guffaws, and reverses it in my hand. "'S that way round, lad. Try now."

"Th - thanks." I close up my left eye, and sure enough, I can just make out a jagged coastline, tiny in the centre of the lens. "That's the Outer Continent?"

"Lucid Peninsula. We're wantin' east of there, Donna Plains-ways. Not far now, though." He folds up the telescope and tucks it in his belt. "Be seein' you, lad." He trots below, presumably to tell Captain Tuh of his discovery.

I stay at the rail, daydreaming. I'll be there tomorrow, inside the ancient Desert Palace, not trodden by mortal feet (except Stiltzkin's) for five hundred years, city of wonder, cathedral of dreams… I've read more about it these last few days, and it sounds fascinating. Lindblum seemed to run on clockwork, but the Desert Palace runs on _magic_; it's everywhere, coloured lights, shifting walls, even the doors run on mana-switches. And it's massive, the size of a small town - a lot bigger even than Lindblum Castle. Stiltzkin spent pages ranting about the disrepair of the place and still said it was probably the most beautiful building in the world, and I heard the new owner had restored it. Oh, my…

No-one seems to know anything about the new resident. He's just some rich guy who likes old houses, I guess, so he patched the place up and ordered two moogles to work it. I'm going with Mogryo - he's not bad, a little younger than me, and he seems a bit naïve but only because he likes to see of the world his own way. He seems to understand things…oh I don't know, I guess he's just a little unnerving sometimes. I'd rather spend a year with him than with most of the other people on this boat. Hell, he's a lot better than that glutton Mogmatt! Suzuna would never speak to me and Kuppo'd, oh I have no idea…

"Mene?" I spin around, startled, but it's only Mocchi. He's hovering over the stairs down, clutching one paw to his chest. Mocchi's small, even compared to me, only eight which is pretty young for a diarist; I guess Mogster must have figured him for a bright little kit and passed him out quicker than usual. He's still a bit shy in company, and still excitable at awkward moments, and he's as dreamy and ambitious as any other first seasoner, firmly expecting his masterpiece… I haven't the heart to tell him what the Iifa Tree's really like - poor kit, that's a rotten place to get your first year out.

"Hiah, Mocchi. What are you doing up here?" He's been out on deck twice in the past five days, once to see what it was like then again only to call me in to dinner. He's looking queasy already.

"Oh, I, I thought I'd -"

He shifts, and the slant of his paw suddenly becomes clear to me. "Oh, I see. How did that happen?" I drift over to attend to it.

"It was an accident." I blink at him suspiciously. "I - Kuppo wanted to play Feather, Paper, Stone, and -"

"- he forgot to mention that the latter was meant literally, Mocchi, he's been doing that one for _years_." I sigh, poking tentatively at the bruises - nothing too deep. It's a simple kit's game like a hundred others - the feather (index finger) marks the paper, the paper (splayed paw) wraps the stone and the stone (fist) smashes the feather. Kuppo has a byline in calling games then sabotaging them. Mocchi got the tame version; there's something in his second 'Skies Of Alexandria' book about the time he called a tournament in the Old Theatre hall and lured three entire families of pigeons in off the street.

Mocchi's face creeps down in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I know -"

"Sssh," I interrupt. "you aren't his first victim, and you won't be the last either, so you don't need to feel stupid." He looks up at me again, smiling just a bit, and I dare a little squeeze to his arm. "See if you can catch him out next time he tries something," I add, and he giggles.

I spread my towel (however much the Burmecians insist they are called 'vairës' I will persist in thinking of it as a 'towel') on the damp wood, and we sit together at the prow. I point out all the features of the decks, the wheel and the crow's nest and the forecastle, to his every-increasing fascination. Seems like all that time in his cabin has denied him the fun of nautical life. Finally I show him where the land is, and he beams in unalloyed pleasure.

I'm starting to seriously worry about his survival prospects. "You're still looking forward to the Iifa Tree?" I ask tentatively.

"Oh yes!" he gushes. "I've been reading a book that says a few things about it. It sounds great, really fun!"

"What's the book?" I inquire absently, wondering who in hell could make the Iifa Tree sound like anyone sane's idea of 'fun'.

"Oh, it's a story. A really fast fun story." The gulls fly over again; maybe they're more common this close to shore. I whistle, and one of them squawks a rude reply. "Kinda overdoes the semi-colons though. Strange thing is, it doesn't say who it's by."

"What?" I turn my wandering attention back to the conversation.

"The book. Doesn't say who wrote it. It's called 'The Amazing Adventures Of Trimalchio The Fire-Spitting Gargant.'"

I don't know quite what would have happened next if it hadn't have been for Mogmatt's cry of "_Guys! Breakfast!_"

* * *

**T.B.C.**

Case Notes: I've been running through the canon again taking reams of notes on what all the moogles are like - almost every one has its own distinct personality. I've tried to build on what I discovered. Kuppo you might remember - he wound up starting not forest fires but small avalanches, at the dark end of Fossil Roo. Now I've tapped that one, I suspect he'll be back later on...I think I like him...

I decided I needed to use Mogryo for Mene's partner because, well, you'll see why ;) before I opened the letter he sent to Mocchi at the Iifa Tree. I was so hoping he'd be an interesting one...then I had a Happy Fit because it was the Vivi's Eyes mail, my favourite Mognet Letter! Ack, I love Mogryo... *runs off to work on the next chapter so she can demonstrate why!*

Oh, yeah, the sailors - that's something I stole from R.L. (I'm cheap, I know!) There's a pretty solid theory that the British and Scandinavian fishing fleets knew damned well America existed by 1450-ish, but kept quiet about it to protect the cod stocks they'd found off the coast of Canada. And I needed an Idea that'd get all the moogles to the Outer Continent... Oh, and I presumed they sailed straight south off the edge of the planet. Just in case I confused anyone.

Even if you just want to flame, please review, I need to know what's wrong with me don't I? So review!


	3. The Sanctum

**A.N.:** Here comes another chapter... I confess, I may have spelt Ophiuchus (the name of the Stellazio author) incorrectly - I'm not at a point in the game where I can find out, so if you can correct me, do. Huge thanks to everyone who has taken the trouble to review already - I love you all! Sparks - you asked why I haven't updated my other fics. Well, I might, sooner or later - it depends what comes into my head. I'm not too fond of Kupo (he's irritating...) so I think I'm done with him, though something may happen. I had an idea for carrying on with Fratley, having him meet up with Puck somewhere, but I'm not sure how to handle how they'd react. Maybe one day. Natalie I love, she's a great voice, but her story feels so complete. If I did her again, it'd be a sequel, not a new chapter. And I think I've said all I have to say about Dagger for now. Thanks for asking - it's nice to know that people enjoy my little ficlets.

I don't own anything in this except for the towels, I think you all know that by now. Oh, and I've got my own views on moogle movement too. In my fics, they can only fly about as well as bumblebees, ie. a little bit at a time, not too high, and not if they're carrying anything much. I think that's fairly canon - how much of FFVI could you have skipped if Mog could've flown? The entire Magitek Research Facility? Most of Kefka's Tower? And why does Stiltzkin walk everywhere if he could wing it? Besides, where's the fun in scaring my characters if they know they can just fly away? Oh no, they're earthbound...heeheehee...

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**#3: The Sanctum**

**Desert Palace**

"Mene?"

He's lagging behind me again. Not only that, but he seems to have fallen in a ditch. I trot back and help him upright, gently, and I wipe the end of my Towel across his head. "Thanks," he says, ducking in my shadow to block the sun out. I don't blame him, it's a wickedly hot day - then, I guess we did just get posted to the middle of a desert. The bad news is, it's midday, and we're headed dead straight southwards…

We set out again, me muttering "_not far now, not-far-now_…" under my breath like a mantra.

He hears me and asks, "Really?" with a deep, sharp look straight into my eyes. I surpress a shiver - he's too odd, sometimes, Mogryo…gods it's getting hot…I feel lightheaded all of a sudden…

"Y-yeah. Stiltzkin said, in his book. S-six hours from the sea." We beached here just past sunset yesterday (they dropped the rest off on the Donna Plains before they came here, and was Kuppo's face a picture when he saw his new posting…). We camped out on the beach and set off about dawn today. Last night was really fun, the first time I've slept outside since those hot autumn nights at Iifa, and Mogryo turned out to be great company. He taught me the names of the stars. Not the useful ones like the Northern Cross and the Evening Star - Stiltzkin told me those - but the others, the beautiful, mystic ones, the ones who don't just tell you which way to walk along Gaia. _Stellai_, he said; birth-stars. He knows what they all mean. He's born under Scorpio, which makes him a shadow-seeker. (Scary thought; are one in every twelve people really that creepy? He's a great guy, just…). I told him my birthday, August 26th, and he said I'm Virgo, someone who's seeking something but doesn't know what until they find it. It - fits, I think; I really _don't_ know what I'm looking for…

It's been a tough morning. Deserts are _not_ nice places to walk through, even in spring. I've got the Towel wrapped round my head as a shade, and Mogryo is looking more than a little envious. He needn't be, because it's not doing much good at keeping me cool, just soaking up excess sweat before it reaches my eyes.

"What's that?" he calls frantically a few minutes later, ahead of me slightly at the top of a rise. I scuttle up to him and look.

Down below us is a wide, flat valley with mountains rearing up out of the sand on the far north side. In the centre is a huge pit surrounded by rocks, like a cavemouth. I smile widely, remembering Stiltzkin's description. Mogryo's howl of anguish takes me somewhat by surprise.

"What?" He slumps to the ground in apparent despair. "What's wrong, Mogryo?" 

"Th - it's not there! Look, Mene, it's _not there_! We're going to have to cross all those mountains…" He starts to sob dejectedly into one paw.

"Um, Mogryo?" He looks up at me. "It's there." I point to the cave with a slight flourish. 

"What? That's a cave, not a palace!"

"It's an underground palace. Stiltzkin says."

A slow-moving wave of comprehension breaks over his forehead and washes slowly down to his chin. "_Oh_." He refuses the paw I offer and lurches to his feet under his own power. "_Fine_." Before I can say another word he launches himself straight down the hill in a fast trot.

I follow at a more sedate pace. Yeah, he does that occasionally - he hates being wrong, and he regularly is, but I know he'll have cooled down before I can catch up with him. No harm done. The slope starts to tease at my feet, daring me to run, and I relent. It's glorious, running down hills, isn't it? Just letting go and turning yourself into nothing but momentum, flying forever, not even thinking about stopping moving… A cloud of dust rises up under my feet, so I close my eyes and let the road carry me along.

I skid to a halt soon after the slope levels out, almost burning my left foot, and bend over, breathing hard. Something I'd forgotten about running - it only hurts after you stop. A water-flask appears before my eyes and I take it gratefully, squirting the cold balm over my tongue. "Thanks," I pant, passing it back to Mogryo.

"You're welcome." He eases my head up. "Look, we're here!"

The cavemouth is actually above us now, huge and gaping. I can vaguely make out a green tile pattern on the ceiling inside, dulled by time. It looks haunting, enchanted, inviting -

- and between us and it is a _ladder_.

Bloody damn.

Ten feet. Ten feet and just _look_ at what we're carrying! I might - _might_ - be able to fly it empty-handed, _if_ I had a decent rise for takeoff, but with _this_ stuff - oh _hell_, I can't even _climb_ with this weight, and I _hate_ climbing -

I turn to Mogryo, steeling myself for another hysterical outburst.

But he's moving already, shrugging off his pack and taking the smooth metal frame in both paws, determination singing from his eyes. "Um? Mogryo -"

"It's not that hard," he murmurs, and tucks a folded knee over the second rung, pulling up with his paws at the same time. I watch, mesmerised, as he ascends over half the ladder that way. He looks down and grins - anyone else'd smirk at my ineptitude, but it's just a friendly, happy grin - and says "Alright, I've got the rhythm now. Can you get the vairë and tie the corner to the pack straps? If you push and I pull I think we can get it all up here." 

I unravel the Towel, slower than I'd like; my fingers aren't working right in this infernal heat. "Where'd you learn to do that?" I ask, gesturing at the four feet of air vertically between us.

"Cleyra," he replies succinctly. Oh. That would explain…a lot of things. I kneel and start hitching the bags together. No wonder he knows the Stellai - I'm pretty sure Prophet Ophiuchus was Cleyran, and I know I read that they still follow his lore there. (Must have been by Mochos - he's really factual about culture-writing). He _acts_ a bit Cleyran too, with the…the upward-looking attitude, the too-mature eyes…what am I thinking about? He's just a _moogle_…

I slide another knot onto the growing collection and lift the backpacks, one in each hand. He draws in a deep breath and drops down a few feet, fluttering into a thermal (there's plenty to spare…) before he can crash, leaving him hovering just above my head. I quickly put the loose end of the fabric into his hands and he catches the ladder again.

We ascend ponderously - he rolls over the top at the point where I'm standing on tiptoes with the packs held precariously above my head, then he holds them as tight as he can while I get far enough up to give them a little lift. He's stronger than he looks, you know. I reach the top, dizzy with exertion, and he hustles me into the shade of the cavern before I can die of heatstroke.

It's a huge space, big enough to hold an airship if it had to. Our steps echo ominously as we walk, and I'm starting to get a little cold. Somewhere in the gloom I hear something moving - I'd cry out, but I don't want to hear it come back to me… We cross a little stone bridge, but there's no stream underneath, and that scares me, I don't know why but it scares me so much…

A blue light burns in a circle at the end of the bridge-stair. Mogryo extends a cautious foot into the glow. "What's this? -"

**_a - thiss…_**, the reply comes, and I force myself not to tremble. "I think it's a portal," I whisper, as quiet as can and still have him hear my voice.

"A _portal_?" He frowns.

**_ah - ortah…_**

"A - a magic door. Stiltzkin -" He sniffs, and steps straight into the light. "Mogryo?!"

**_ohgiho -_**

He smiles at me, and vanishes.

Damn. Well, I can't stay here…damn him… I swallow, hard, and stand inside the circle.

Oh, my… It's like all the weight has just fallen off my body and I'm flying, not just skimming a draught but really _flying_, falling upwards through an airless pool and seeing the stars from the inside...is this eternity in here? Where am I…? What - there's a light above me -

I blink, feeling something cold below my feet. I _think_ I made it. Mogryo too; his pack lies forgotten in front of me and he's staring inquisitively at a statue of a twisted man with wings. He turns to me, and comes back for the luggage. "Looks like we're here." Yes. I suppose it does…

It's a beautiful, ornate room, aside from the two blue portals nothing too unlike a chamber from Lindblum Castle; thick red carpet, crafted white walls, majestic exiting archway, tall handsome statues… Only there's something about the overall effect that's _wrong_, like one of those pictures where you have to spot the hidden mistake - are the gold railings the wrong way out? Should the statues be closer together? Shouldn't there be the slightest speck of dust in the carpet…?

Mogryo finishes his inspection. "Well. This seems promising." …Oh. That's okay then… "Shall we try the corridor first, or the other portal?"

I don't know that I can take too much madness at once; it's likely to prove contagious. "Corridor. Definitely the corridor." He waves me ahead of him, and I lead through an arch into a short hall. It's more obviously strange than the last room; it looks like someone built walls around a quarter of a wheel and ran a carpet through the middle… I set down my pack and knock timidly on the vast double doors at the end of the hall, feeling the sound reverberate through the - bronze? I'm not sure _what_ it is. I'm not sure I can trust what I'm guessing about anything here. Where is the all the light coming from?

The doors swing wide, and a voice, smooth and dark and sweet like blood spilled on marble, calls: "Enter."

We obey, and I don't think I'm imagining the way he's trying to stand as close to me as possible. The light's lower in here, coming naturally from mounted torches which sends shadows chasing round the corners. But what I can see is far stranger than anything I ever dreamed at Iifa…

He's standing before a great bookcase, on the other side of some weird floor-fitting I can't work out. His white-clad arms are trailing from his sides like stray feathers, sleeves brushing his long legs, making him look like a twist of purple smoke. Ivory hair falls in soft locks over his back, swaying from side to side in the still air of the room. He swings around slowly, and reveals a face like carved marble, skin too pale to be human, features too perfect to be real…

His eyes open, thin and liquid, sharper than swords, and I can physically sense his gaze sweeping over me. "You are the ones I sent for." I can't think of a suitable reply, or any reply at all for that matter. Mogryo shrinks back, moving behind my shoulder. I'm just frozen to the spot…

"Welcome to my Palace, little spirits."

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**T.B.C.**


	4. Letters And Numbers

**A.N.:** Sorry this took such a long time - I made it pretty long to make up for it. Actually, it was just rolling around my head for a few days because I knew what I wanted to happen, but not where to start. Once I _did_ start, it really ran for it - so my apologies in advance if you get confused. It's about twenty-four hours after the last chapter, and Mene is a little bit stressed out. So he's babbling. That means **bad grammar** and lots of it. If any of it doesn't make sense, ignore it and go onto the next sentence. Also, he's **swearing**, quite violently; my staider readers might need to wash their minds out after this...

Thanks for all the lovely reviewage.

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**#4: Letters And Numbers**

The Rack

_Hiss…isss…sss_

It's running, moving, swirling around like it's alive, red and dark and ominous. If there was _anything_ else to get my mind off…everything…I'd smash the damned thing and be done with it. It's as odd, as _discordant_, as everything else in this damned place and, oh hells, I can't take a hammer to _all_ of it but if I could just pulverise that one thing -

- something else in this room would creep under my eyeballs and scare the living crap out of me for no real reason _instead_.

There was a time, oh, years ago, though I guess technically it must have been within the last two days, when a little voice in the back of my head used to say, 'Mene, don't be silly. It's just an hourglass. There's nothing unusual about a large hourglass being here. Ha, that's funny - how can coloured sand look malevolent? Guess crossing the desert took more out of you than you thought…' but it went away because I was flatly refusing to listen to it. First, well, who listens to voices anyway, and second, it was _lying_ because I fucking well _know_ that thing is out to get me…

Crazy? Oh yes, I know, it's getting fairly obvious even to me. (Hey, Mene, chalk one up for being the first person ever to get madder when they _stopped_ listening to the Voices…) But, shit, how in the Nine Planes of Gaia am I meant to stay even slightly sane-ish- when I've just signed up for a year-long shift in a -

_- torture chamber?_

Deep breaths, kit. Deep breaths. Maybe I'll wake up in a few minutes and find I'm still at the Iifa Tree…

I feel a warm tug inside my chest before my feeble mind can clamp down on it, and I slowly but firmly start banging my head against my hunched knees. I _vow_, by all that is good and holy, I will never, never, _never_ feel _nostalgic_ for the Iifa Tree _ever_ again. I _swear_.

Though, come to think of it, maybe it wasn't so bad after all…

_Grrrrrrrr!!!_

Okay, so attempting to stare down the hourglass doesn't help. I may as well try pacing up and down the room again. Not like there's a lot else to do…

One, two, three, four, five. Ah, here's the wall. Not a bad wall, as walls go. Tall. Stone, nicely smoothed and carved a bit, like most of the other walls in this…place. Little niche set in it for the hourglass, and that big set of scales (no, I don't get it either, sorry). Brazier in the corner - do you really need that big a poker for such a little brazier? Oh, and the mirror. Hmm… I think my pompom's starting to fray a bit at the bottom right. I'm sure that's not meant to happen until you're at least nineteen…

Turn. One, two, three, past the - um - the birdcage, five, six, oh who decided to put the rack _there_? It's almost impossible to get any decent pacing in with that in the way… Seven, eight, and level with the little table by the wall with all the thumbscrews on it. You know, the day before yesterday I actually believed that thumbscrews no longer existed outside the pages of Monev's horror novels? Stiltzkin always told me that travelling…broadens the…mind… Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Huh?

No, come on…it was _eleven_ paces yesterday, I know it was, I remember being pissed off because it's such an annoyingly weird number, twelve's almost _normal_, I _know_ it wasn't twelve before…think now, three to the cage, two to the rack, then two more to the table and it can't be more than four from there to here…

Rewind previous thirty seconds of brainspew. Score another one, kit; the one between 'three' and 'five' is called 'four'. Oh _fuck_, what's happening to me?

No, I'm going to put off answering that for a bit. It sounds a bit difficult, like something off Mogster's 'Advanced Prepositions' course or something, and I just know it'll give me a headache…_if_, that is, there is room for _another_ one in here and I frankly wouldn't rule it out given the rather extreme circumstances, oh, but what if they start breeding, I might wind up with even _more_ of them if the first one's a boy headache and the second one's a girl headache…

_Mene 3: Sanity 0._ Hey, only three hundred and sixty three more days to go… 

Wall. Look at the _wall_, yes, the one in front of you, no _not_ up there you fluffy headcase… Okay. Wall. Like other wall, only no assorted squicklykins (it's a word _now_, alright?) Carvy, like. Oh, and there's a door in it too, but that's not much help 'cause it's even weirder out _there_ than it is in _here_.

Okay, I've paced it out now. I'll try sitting on the rack again… Gods, this is _far too weird_; the rack is the only thing in the entire room that is even vaguely the right shape for sitting on. Forgive my squeamishity (_conjugate, conjugate_), but I find this fact somewhat disturbing, not least because it's me who has to do the sitting. What sick fuck designed this stupid Palace anyway?

Him. Him, him, _him_. Okay, so he never built the damn place but he _must_ have refurbished it or redecorated it or something, I think Stiltzkin would have _said_ if it was originally this creepy. And it takes a certain kind of person to create a fully fitted torture room then add a full-length mirror, a balance scale, and that thrice-cursed hourglass…

"Fuck you," I mutter, watching the top bulb empty itself a little more. Ha, that's four-times-cursed now, take that! I guess it's 4: 0 by now two, no damnit _too_, four, two, eleven…_noooo_…my _head_ hurts…

It doesn't add up! _Nothing_ about this place makes sense! _That's_ what's getting to me - there's something incongruous everywhere I look, like the overgrown eggtimer over there, there's something weird everywhere…

..._hell_...

It started when we got here. I mean, that Kuja guy's in the Sanctum place and okay he's spooky, but I can take spooky, no disrespect to her but Freya's damned spooky at times and she's my _friend_. But then I look around at the spookiness props, and they're all there, you know, the enormous fireplace, the unnerving statue, the truly esoteric bookcase (I swear I saw a Namingway original up there - that's, like, every kit's dream, to be like Namingway, so famous that they still read your books after you've been dead for two hundred years. Most humans don't even know that Namingway was a _moogle_ these days…), the flaming torches - everything a maniac could possibly want.

And there was a pot plant in the corner.

A _pot plant_.

Okay, so it was flowering in black, but…

It went downhill from there.

There's the big things, like the vanishing staircases (I can write that off as just background creepiness providing they don't do it when I'm using them) and the rather unconventional type of central heating (lava, of course, what else?). They just make me shake a bit and wish I was a very long way away. It's the little bits that really scare me. Like the Fire Chamber, for example. We decided before we got here, Mogryo and I, who was going to write what. It wasn't hard; we're completely different about writing. He just wanted a quiet, inspiring corner to scribble poetry and philosophy in, and I wanted to write about what it was like and what happened here (I _love_ a good traveller's tale), so I went wandering around yesterday taking a look at the place. I found the Fire Chamber, and it's beautiful… Every surface polished and gleaming with reflected firelight, floor covered in purple-white tiling and red carpets, statues of women with hoods round their faces, kneeling to pray to the light…amazing, I'm sure it was a chapel once, back in the old days when the Desert Palace was the home of the highest nobility in Gaia… Just a perfect, complete effect. I could almost hear the singing.

Until, that is, I saw the roses someone had left sprouting in the font.

Now look, I'm not a cruel person, and I have nothing against red roses or any other kind of flower for that matter, but they do _not_ belong in an ancient chapel and damnit, they looked so _wrong_! Like the hourglass in the torture chamber; it doesn't belong there! Everywhere I look there's something strange, and I don't like it, I can't get used to it, it's too - 

-_ evil_.

Yeah. It - it is kind of evil. Why is it like that? I - I don't understand - I mean, I can imagine a torture chamber would look evil but that it gets more evil if you put an hourglass in it, _no_…but it _is_…

The last of the sand tumbles into the bottom bulb, leaving my eyes with even less stimulation than before. Maybe I ought to turn it over again. Maybe I ought to go outside and throw it straight into the lava pit. Maybe I ought to jump in afterwards…

A movement in the mirror catches my eye. Smoke? I turn and jump up off the rack, reaching for my dagger as the dust-cloud expands before my eyes…

Hey, waitasecond - I sag back in abject relief, inhaling the once-familiar scent of vaporised Superslick oil. That's a jumpjack brake! They never came that way in Lindblum, they always came by airship like they do whenever they can - oh, joy…

The little cloud bursts, and before I know it I'm crouching down and helping him up amid the aftershocks. Yes, oh _yes_, someone out there gives a damn, someone hasn't forgotten me, I feel so much better just looking at him -

"Umm…Mene, are you okay? You look a bit…dizzy…"

I freeze, jaw moving in disjointed circles. That must make it six-nil at least, maybe as many as twelve or thirteen, good hells I need to get out of here - I was maybe three inches away from hugging _Artemecion_ damnit -

…hmm, all that sleek fluff, I could really do with a good pillow to cry on…

It's not easy, talking through clenched teeth, but I've never been a quitter. "Yeah, I'm fine! How about _you_?"

A surprised half-smile touches his little pink face. "Not _so_ bad, thanks. I've made a lot of jumps this morning, so I'm a bit woozy, though. S'tough sometimes, being mailman."

You know, I never thought of that? It's not like I've ever used a jumpjack but I've heard stories… The Central owns precisely two of the things, one for the mailman and one for the Wayside Scribe (current incumbent; Moguo, kind, hardy, possibly-the-least-patient-moogle-in-history Moguo) whose duty it is to be ready to jump _anywhere_ there's anything that needs writing down when there's no-one else in range. They aren't cheap machines; they can't afford another one, however much Moguo and Artemecion ought to have helpers - too much of the annual budget goes on servicing the two they have. And they aren't comfy, either. Poor kits, bouncing around like that all the time…

"Is there anything for me in there?"

He digs into his satchel. "Yeah, you got a couple, I think. Do you know how much mail there is the week after transfer? Millions of letters all saying _'hey, how's your new placement?'_ and parcels sent to _everywhere_… I think my arm's about to fall off…"

I heft the bag experimentally. "Fuck, that's heavy."

"You think?" He raises a (neatly plucked) eyebrow. "I've done half the round already today."

"_Oh_." I guess it _is_ tough being mailman… He finds the right bundle, two envelopes strung together, a paper tag with MENE written on it dangling off the whole. I take it eagerly.

"Is Mogryo around?"

"Yeah, he's in the Library. It's just up the stairs, you can't miss it." (Sarcastic? _Moi_?)

He grabs another little letter-packet. "Is it okay if I leave the mailbag here, just while I find Mogryo? That'll give you time to write a few replies, right?"

He looks so hopeful, and so tired… "Would you rather stay here a minute and get your breath back?"

"Oh, yes! That'd be great!" He grins from ear to ear, the first real smile I've seen all day, and yes that definitely includes all the hours I spent staring at the mirror (currently only the third most annoying thing in the room; no, I'm being cruel, Artemecion's not so bad really…) The jubilant expression fades a little as he starts to take in his surroundings. "Um…Mene - isn't this-"

"A torture chamber? Yes, I suppose it is. It's my new placement." My eyes dare him to comment.

"Oh. M - maybe I had better go give these to Mogryo…"

I probably ought to warn him about what the rest of the Palace is like, but I'm too stressed out to find the words… "Could you wait two seconds while I jot down a note?" He nods, and I yank a strip of letter-paper off the ever-handy pad.

_**From Mene to Mogryo.**   
I hate this place. I think I'm going mad. I want to go back to   
Lindblum where all I had to deal with was drunk engineering   
students and Lilias's 'What The Moogle Said To The High Priestess'   
jokes.   
So how are _you_?_

Hmmm…concise, informative, grammatically not-so-bad… I hand it to Artemecion and he stuffs it in Mogryo's packet. I watch him leave the room, see him halt at the sight of the two vampire statues in the Dungeon outside, push the door shut on his muttered expletives. _Clang!_, how satisfying…

Hm. Post. May as well start at the top. Oh, look at this!

_**From Kuppo to Mene.**   
I'm bored, kupo. Really bored.   
So I went to the Iifa Tree to see Mocchi. I tried the good old   
run-up-screming-'Hey!-There's-an-entire-invading-army-just-over-   
that-mountain!' trick.   
He said, 'Oh. I hope you've still got your rock.'   
I _hate_ this place…_

Ha, I _knew_ that little kit had spunk in him somewhere! I curl up, giggling, fluttering three inches upward before I notice I'm doing it. I _love_ the post, there's always something to cheer me up in there. This one definitely warrants a reply, no, maybe two… 

_**From Mene to Kuppo.**   
Guess he foiled you. Live with it.   
Why don't you go exploring? There must be something you can write   
about on the Donna Plains!   
Maybe you could take up poetry?_

He won't, of course. He's more likely to take up _banditry_. But it never hurts to try.

_**From Mene to Mocchi.**   
I heard about the 'rock'.   
Nice one.   
Kupo._

Okay, so what's in the other letter?

_**From Freya to Mene.**   
I hope you got to your new post in one piece.   
All is quiet in Lindblum, but I've heard some dark rumours about   
Alexandria. They say Queen Brahne is raising an army. If I had   
anything to worry about, I think I'd be worried.   
As it is, I'm just preparing for the Hunt…_

Gods, I'd nearly forgotten what the Mist Continent's like… Normal people, or as normal as Freya, anyway. Normal problems, like impending wars and such. Normal places, like Lindblum…

Damn, _real_ nostalgia. I think I'm improving, though, call it Mene 12: Sanity 2 or something. What shall I say to Freya, then?

_**From Mene to Freya.**   
Yes, I got here, but I really don't like it. It's too scary!   
I'm sorry to here about the trouble in Alexandria. But worrying   
never solves any problems. And I know you and your lance can   
fight off anything!   
Thankyou for writing. It's good to hear news from Lindblum, and   
good to hear from you._

Hmm…I think that's okay. Letter-slips are far too small, but I guess if they weren't Artemecion would have no arms left by now.

I slouch against the wall, idly trying to straighten out my fraying pompom. This is not exactly my idea of a perfect home, but I've signed it for a year and a year is how long I have to live with it. After that, I think I'll be really picky about my next post. I want somewhere that isn't a desert, or any kind of palace either. Not a city, I'm tired of those. Somewhere still, with lots of plants and plenty of rain, maybe out on a small island a long way away from anywhere. Someplace with quiet music and clouds like angel-trails and a warm stream singing down from the plateau…

The _hell_?

Mene knocks it for six; now I'm really losing it! That damn dream's chasing me again! What was I trying to think about? Next year. This year. Survival thereof. Ipso facto, it is now time to _unpack_.

Why didn't I do it yesterday? Simple; I wanted to be all ready to leave when I finally decided to run off into the endless desert all alone rather than stay here in the Rack. I curse my stubborn streak sometimes. Okay. So open the pack, then.

The Towel's on top, right where I stuffed it when Kuja dragged us off on his little tour of the premises. (Don't ask. And don't even _mention_ the Stairwell, I _still_ feel a bit dizzy…) Hmm, it'd go nicely on the rack, folded up to make a cushion. Either there, or on top of the blasted hourglass; I really can't stand the sight of it. The books are next. Stiltzkin's I've finished, but I might need it for reference if I decide to escape. I'm done with Monev's vampire story; thank the gods I read it on the boat, there is no way in hell I could cope with a horror story in this place… I'll save Mogrich's history book until I'm feeling clever enough (I'll keep a space clear in my Diary for next April, then), which leaves Laudo Wren as tonight's read. I'll give it a go, but it takes a special kind of human to write as well as a moogle. They aren't designed for it the way we are. There have been a few really great ones though, people like Dr Tot (and Cid Fabool's done some amazing scientific stuff, revolutionary things about steam power and clockwork) so I guess he deserves a chance.

Clothes. I unpacked one tunic already, to replace the one I trudged around the desert in yesterday. _That_ one's going for rags. I may as well leave the rest in there; they're folded neat enough. I'll root out the hankies, though. Let's see -

"Hey, Mene." Artemecion slides back though the huge door, looking a little rested. I guess he had a sit-down in the Library, maybe on one of the directionally-subjective bookshelves in there. "Uh, this Palace looks like…fun…"

"Don't lie, Artemecion. It's horrible."

He doesn't reply, probably because there's not a lot to say. He shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably, then suddenly digs into his pocket. "Here - Mogryo sent a reply."

I catch the scrap of paper in one hand, and unravel it.

_**From Mogryo to Mene.**   
It's not as 'promising' as I thought, kupo. The Library is nice   
and quiet, but I can't seem to get used to the naked black-winged   
angel picture on the wall. I think I preferred it in Treno…   
Maybe we should meet up soon and discuss it. Come visit me,   
please!_

Well. If _Mogryo's_ creeped out, I think I have a case. Sanity Be Damned - I'll go visit him as soon as I've calmed down.

"Thanks." I give him my other three letters. "Is that okay? I mean, I only took two off you, and you're pretty tired -"

"It's fine - Mogryo got a parcel, so I'll still be running lighter than when I came." He slips them in his bag and shoulders it, then starts spinning the jumpjack motor. I open the door a bit wider and try to fan the fumes out with my paws; you're really not meant to use a jumpjack indoors, but we don't have much of a choice.

He punches in a few coordinates as the smoke starts to thicken. "Mene," he says softly, finger hovering over the big blue ACTIVATE button. 

"Hm?"

"I just wanted to say thanks. For - for being so kind to me. Not a lot of people are as kind as you."

He vanishes, leaving me blinking stupidly at his vapour trail. 

I think I ought to get back to the unpacking. Artemecion being genuinely friendly? That's too much to think about…

I flop back on the Towel and rummage down into my pack. Clothes, more clothes, oh the spare notebooks and ink, I'd better get them out before something spills. My quill case! So _that's_ what was gouging a hole in the small of my back yesterday… I'm sure there was something else I put in here, something important, now what was it - Huh? What's this? It feels like a pouch of something…

I pull the softened leather out into the firelight.

Serino's bag of kupo nuts.

I do believe I'm saved…

* * *

**T.B.C.**

Case Notes: A few weekends ago I sat down with my Playstation and covered two A4 pages of spidery writing with the most meticulous notes imaginable, doodling every last candle in the entire Palace...I hope my pernicketiness payed off. I love the place, it's so beautiful, but there's all those unnerving little touches that tell you Kuja lives there.

Laudo Wren is back. And STILL no-one remembers him! The surname is my own invention, but the character is 100% canon. Human. Writer. Laudo. A minor character who Thene loved on sight. If no-one gets it by next chapter, I'll have to start dropping hints... There WILL be a giftfic for anyone who remembers him. I promise!

Just to clarify; Mene is fourteen and a half years old. Why? Well, I wanted to work out how old moogles should be, so I went and looked up the FFVI index at ffonline.com. I read that Mog was 11 during the story, and I think if he were human he'd be about 18 or 20. Therefore I decided Mene's career started when he was 10, and that was four years ago. Okay? I think they live to about 28 or so, but I'm not about to kill one, so that's all in the realms of the We Shall See. 

Some of these kind, sweet reviews have informed me that People Like My Writing Style. Firstly, I am much flattered. Secondly, I am not wholly deserving; I have two teachers for this first-person-present madness I indulge in. The first is a truly amazing FFVIII writer called XIneko. She's right there on my favourite-authors page, brilliant, demented, and very very funny; truly the best first-person writer I've ever come across. All her work is in NC-17, but if you're a little too young for that, fear not, you can still look at her stories; she flags all the squishy bits at the top of the relevent chapters, and the first few installments of both her multi-chapter fics are clean enough, if you're just wanting to fish for tips. She really is a complete genius...

The other great teacher is 'getting experience and trying hard.' Hn.


	5. The Path

****

A.N.: HOW LONG HAS IT BEEN? 

Sorry. Very sorry. Was too busy finding other things to mess with. But just recently I've been playing FFIV and now I have TONS of devious ideas again! This chapter's not too big and not too interesting, but it gets the ball rolling again, and with any luck I'll be back with another by the end of the week. 

Huge thanks to all readers…all people who sign anything! both here and at the FFOnline fic club, but especially to AmethystFleetFoot, Ambassador Garnet L Alexandros and Mith Galtirglin. Couldn't have done it without you…

* * *

****

#5: The Path

Library

"...We can't."   


"What?!"   


"We can't do it. It's insane."   


"You want us to stay_ here_? Is_ that_ sane?"   


"It's saner than charging off into the desert. We're not about to die or anything -"   


"You_ sure_ -?"   


" - and we can't just give up our posts! That's_ wrong_!"   


"I'm going_ mad_ here, Mogryo, I can't take this for a_ year_!"   


"Live with it." I glare at him, hoping to convey some of my aggravated pessimism, and maybe one of the headaches whilst I'm at it. "Write about it, it's what you're here for."

"Is that what you're doing? Trading sense off for duty -"   


"It's not duty, Mene, it's_ life_." He stalks back to the bookcase, pompom twitching in annoyance. Gods, he's_ crazy_. I can't believe he wants to stay here just to write his crappy poems, couldn't he do that someplace else? He stands with one shoulder resting against the case, looking at me levelly. "Mene." I stare off sideways, picking loose nut fibres out of my teeth with my tongue. If I didn't feel so woozy I might just think of a way to talk him into it, but... "If we run away, we'll lose our contracts, we'll have nowhere safe to stay, and we'll die of thirst before we can care. You know that, don't you? And if we stay here, we'll be warm, fed,_ alive_, and -"

"- stark, staring bonkers within a fortnight." I insert.   


His eyes narrow. Well? Admit it, you cowardly line-toeing fuzzball, we can't stay in the Palace - not if it keeps phasing in and out like this..._fuck_...

His impatient gaze becomes suddenly calculating. "Mene, how many kupo nuts have you eaten today?"   
I mumble a response, hoping he won't care.   


"I beg your pardon?"   


"_Six, okay_!" So, I'm not quite sober right now, but it's not like I wasn't planning to leave when I was! He walks up and grabs my wrist. "Hey!" So, I'm a little dizzy, it doesn't help that you're trying to cut off my blood supply! "Mogryo!" So maybe I went a little bit past the healthy intake limit - no, I'm swaying, you've made me go light-headed -

"Come here." He trots off through the tall arch into the stairwell, dragging me after him. "You need water." 

"What?!"   


"You've had far too many, if you don't get rehydrated you'll get ill." He pulls me down a flight of curved stairs, not doing any good to my ringing head. The huge room flies past my eyes in swirly, demented glory. A stained-glass picture catches my eye - a woman, clothed in midnight-blue and crowned in silver, holding a girl-child in one arm and a sword in the other. The mood I'm in, it seems almost meaningful, but I bet you anything it's just another sick joke. He leads me into a low corridor and pushes open a simple wooden door, far and away the most basic fitting I've seen in the whole Palace so far. "In here."

Well...It's small, snug, the sort of room that the lord of the manor wouldn't know about but everyone else would. It's simply panelled in bare white wood, simply furnished with little cupboards and chairs and tables, simply carpeted in odd patchwork rugs... There's something about it that screams 'kitchen', it'd be obvious even without the spit in the fireplace and the water-pump and drain in the far corner. It'd be obvious if it was just a bare room, it's that kitcheny. He settles me onto a hard chair, and draws me a mugful of water. I gulp it down, but the nausea only increases. I think he knows that; he pats my shoulder softly, saying 

"Wait a minute, you'll feel better once that's got down your throat."

I chew on one lip, acutely feeling my stomach's quite creditable Southern Ocean impersonation. Mogryo's hovering nearby, just past the cloud of black fog, and he's looking disapproving, to say the least. That's not fair - at least he didn't get put in the torture chamber! Maybe if he had've been I wouldn't have had to -

"Don't blame_ me_," he snaps, suddenly. "No-one told you to drug yourself, you know."   


Oh will you just quit reading my mind and go away?   


He sighs, raking one paw across his forehead. "Look, Mene..." He thumps down onto a chair. "I think it'd be easier if we stopped fighting. There's no need to be so angry –"

"I have a _lot_ to be angry about, thanks!"

He sighs (oh _don't_ patronise me), moves away, and a moment later I hear water running...or maybe just some very creative tinnitus. "Mene," he says patiently, "one can only ever be truly angry at oneself. All else is merely passing sorrow."

"I don't need your platitudes."

"It's not a platitude, it's _religion_." He's rummaging in a cupboard now... So, religion. That's what's meant to turn a silly proverb into a universal truth. Mogryo, do you want a kupo nut? I know I do... "You're not thinking about it, are you?"

No. "No," I mutter. "It – it's only _words_, Mogryo. It's not going to help me survive a year living in that Rack."

"But that's what religion's _for_ – it makes sense of everything, Mene –"

I know my vision's clearing, because I'm _glaring_ at him. 

He takes the empty mug from my hands, sets it by the stove. He's hung something over the – er – the magic fire, dunno what, dun care what... "Well...each to their own, Mene, but I think it's not too late for you to find the Path. You liked it when I showed you the Stellai –"

" – _evangelist –_"

He scowls. Well, he _might_. "I'm sorry, I suppose I was just lucky enough to be born in Cleyra." He glances into the cooking-pot, and stirs it with a wooden spoon – yes, I can nearly see again now, though my _head_ is _killing_ me. 

I try to collect a few thoughts together, in the hope that it'll detract from the sensations. "I thought...that we don't have homes."

"Most of us don't. I just...it just _is_, Cleyra, it's been a part of me for...too long to explain. We can't help who we are, Mene. That's why we ought to take the Journey." 

Hm. Really. "What is it, anyway? Is it that Ophiuchus stuff?"

He dips two mugs in his pot. "He was the first Prophet, yes." I sigh wearily, but he pretends not to notice. "I know he wrote things about the stars and the moon, but it was really all about more important things. Why we're all here, why we need the Prophets, and where we're all going –"

"Well?" 

He sets the two mugs neatly on the table. "Well, what?"

"Why are we here and all that?"

"To write it down, of course. We're _moogles_." He drops abruptly into a chair opposite me, and his pompom sways front-to-back like a pendulum. 

"Oh... But wasn't he a human?" 

"Yes, but he understood things. That's what made him special. He led the Cleyrans out of Burmecia so they could follow the Path in purity... It's all about Nature, Mene. And knowing what your place is in the world, and taking the Path the Stellai have set out for you. He knew that moogles are the custodians of all knowledge, and said that some of us would be different, more important –"

"More Prophets?" I ask sceptically, sniffing my drink. Herb-laden steam assaults my nostrils...mmm... 

"Yes – but also guardians, people to keep us on the Path. They're leaders too, because only they can ever make _more_ Knowledge –" I open my mouth, but, no, it's not worth the pain. I take a sip of tea instead. "And two of the other Prophets were moogles, according to some of the Records. The power descended from Ophiuchus passed later into the Sindai the Truthgiver, and then onto the Chanter, Namingway –"

I splutter through my mouthful of liquid. "I hate it when people do that!"

"What?"

"Make out that Namingway was –" ow, I _need_ this tea " – religious. He was just a good writer! He never asked to be hijacked by anyone."

He looks at me sternly. "But in the Book of Names he wrote about the trail of Art-suh-Taraz through the Two Hundred And Twelve sacred Gaian Ways, and Prophet Sindai said –"

"It's just_ poetry_, Mogryo –"

"You haven't read it, have you?"

I shift uncomfortably in my seat...trying to rock the Headache back to sleep. "No." He raises an accusing brow. "They're just a few weird poems – everyone knows that. Even Stiltzkin thinks so." Hm. That's what glares feel like, then. "Look, it's all very high-minded and everyhthing, but it sounds like...like a big fairy story or something. A castle in the air. I – I'm sure you can learn something from it, though," I conceed, before his pompom can fall off.

He nods, semi-placated, and I sip my drink again. It's sweet and herby – clearing my mind, really. Mogryo holds out a paw. "Truce?" he asks.

I grasp it. "Yeah, okay". It's leathery-smooth, and still warm from the cooking pot. "Let's just tlak, and quit arguing."

He nods. "For what it's worth to you," he shrugs, "I think that the Path would want us to stay here. To write things, like we were made to. I can show you some verses if you like –"

"That's okay!" I say quickly, but I force a tiny smile. "I'll just...take your word for it."

He grins. "Good – I think I'd miss you if you got eaten by sand worms". 

I roll my eyes...oh, I'm getting tired now...must be all the tea. "Thankyou." I feel warm now, too. 

We drink in silence for a while, watching the dust circling around the fire-glow. "So..." he says slowly, "...where are you from?"

"Nowhere," I reply dozily. "Oh, I was born in Guenita, but I don't –"

"Where?"

I giggle. "It's a tiny village, South Alexandria. Nothing there but mist... Just where my mother happened to be when I was born. I don't even remember it – I think I remember us being in Alex, I must've been three then – then off to old Mog's training school when I was four." 

He sits up a little. "You knew Old Mog?"

"Yeah, just about...I was only a kit, though."

"I was a couple of years later – Mogster had taken it over by then. I was in Cleyra all my life before I went to school, and – it stayed with me, Mene. Maybe because the Moon Maidens had already shown me my Path..."

"Where have you been on post, anyway?"

"Just Treno – I had my first two seasons there. It was...well, it's a lovely town, and very _ordered_, I liked that – but a lot of the richer people were misusing their Paths." Oh...how terrible for you, Mogryo...Stiltzkin told me things about Treno that made my blood curdle, _Mogryo_... "I was pretty glad to leave, really. You?"

"Summit, Iifa, and two years at Lindblum. You'd _hate_ Lindblum, believe me." 

He titters with laughter. "Yes, I think I would. How about Iifa? Namingway seemed to like it –"

"Then Namingway was a _nutbar_." I say firmly, and sleepily. I stretch out my toes and yawn. "You know, Kuja has a Namingway – in the Sanctum. Must be – really old..."

"Really?" Now he's hovering in religious excitement... "Which one?"

"Just the Book of Names, but...really old. Maybe even...as old as Namingway..."

His eyes seem to be glazing over, hungrily... "Wow. I _have_ to see that! Oh, we _have to_, Mene!" hm...who's this 'we', then? "I'll make him show us, won't I? I'll tell him that I follow the Path and – oh, do you think he does too?" Mogryo...really...

Something of my lethargy finally starts to register. "Oh. Okay...shall we do it tomorrow morning, then?"

"O...okay..."

He smiles, rises, makes for the cupboard again. "Shall I fix us a bedtime snack?"

I think hazily back on the stuffed sand-snail pie that the tentacled Palace servant brought me last night...er...mmm... "Yeah...good idea, Mogryo..."

* * *

…oh. And Thene has been working on the Compressed Realms groupfic on Ffonline, writing naaasty aaangsty things about Dagger. If you want to come visit, do – only I think part of the site's broken right now. Anyhow…usual story – flame at the bottom left, okay? ^_^


	6. Edges

**A.N.:** This took me too damned long...! I had staging problems; I wrote the end of this bit first then had no idea how to get to it without making everyone act like glove-puppets, then I had the strangest idea the other week... Anyway, here is your new Surreal Fix. I hope it makes more sense to you than to me. The Random Sanskrit will be explained later, I swear! 

Hugest squiffiest thanks be given to everyone who signed this...I'm very sorry I starved you of it for so long; I hit a low again. Good news is, I have much of the next part down already. And today, you all must sign, all of you, because it was my eighteeth birthday yesterday! O.O

* * *

**#6: Edges**

The water slips through my toes, carrying the energies off into the place below. It's not cold...it's not warm either, or even damp; it's only water, water at its most pure...so complete and so tied to this place that it's not even water at all. "You know," I say slowly, "I think I'd be afraid if you weren't here with me now."

The mountain rises around us...too big for us to see it, I think we're inside it now. What's below... There's a place here where the ocean is right underneath the mountain, and the ocean is a void, but there's so much water that it's going to fill up - it's confusing for me, I wasn't meant to be here. "Was I?" I ask aloud. He doesn't reply. "I'm not part of this...this place, am I? You brought me here..." He shakes his head, telling me what I always knew somehow. I am meant to be here. We've gone all the way to the very edge together, and it's not just because of who he is...he needed me, too, I know it now.

There's something about the blackness that tells me 'sunlight!' - it's as if we're waiting for the dawn together, but it's already happened. I look around, try to find some sort of context - someplace to put my two paws and say that _this_ is Mene and _this_ is where he's been and -

I reach into my pack for a notebook, but there isn't one. No notebook. Not even a pack. I paid everything for this - threw it all over because I knew we could do it... I suddenly realise how brave it was, coming all this way just because we thought it was important. Especially for him - he never even had a chance to give up, did he?

"Thankyou," I whisper, turning round slowly. "Oh thankyou!" For the first time in my life, I look upon his face -

- the shapeless blue nebula of dawn and star-smoke.

*

This is a dream. It still is, even now I'm wide awake and lying on the rack again. None of this is real...nothing could ever make this real. The firelight is long since dead, and the sun is a dull-glass memory, but I can see it all in black-and-white now. See all the tiny stitches that make up the great illusion. And now I can see, I can't control it any more... A hand pushes my blankets aside; two sturdy pink legs strike the floor in unison, but they're no more mine than my notebook is.

I push open the enormous door as if it were made of silk, as if it wasn't there, and the hallways spread out before me. It all seems so obvious - there is only one right way, only one way I _can_ go - forward. Up, left, clockwise, they're only for my feet to follow. It's all just another name for Forward.

It's only the portal that changes anything - I stand there and let it carry me away, put me onto another road, another layer - and this one's so straightforward. Right...archway, what a strange thing, to have a door but no door at all...hm, the statues make sense now, too. The Wheel's so obvious when you look at it with these eyes. Even this door, the one I thought would be the end of me, is simple - it's only a _door_, after all. It'll never be a match for me...

Some things are dangerous however you see them. Everything around him is monochrome and hollow - even the fire - but Kuja is blazing with colour, wild clothes almost shedding their own light. He turns, sending tiny sparkles out in a spiral, and smiles as if he were expecting me. 

"I was, little kitten." His voice is real too - not just sounds with meanings to them, but something more, something endless and evil that no-one from Gaia should have. I only heard it once before I met him. "You came to take something...troublesome."

"Troublesome?" I ask...not even sure what it is, but I'll know, I'll know.

"For your poet-friend. I think I will like watching him take it from you." Oh, the - "But first, _Mene_, I will allow you to speak that question which is burning so fiercely in your tiny moogle brain."

"Is this a dream?" I blurt out.

He laughs. He's got a strange laugh, all high-pitched and girly, but so dark and malevolent at the same time. "Is it a _dream_? Of course it is a dream. Everything you know of is a dream. But now, I would say, you have never been more awake in all your short life."

He pivots on one foot and strides across the room, leaving a trail in his wake like a comet. He walks as far as the pot plant (strange how much _sense_ that makes now), pivots again, and then walks back to the fireplace in slow, dangerous paces. "You creatures write the histories, do you not?" Turn, pace, trail. I nod, even though he isn't looking. What does it matter, anyway? "So ironic...I thought they were mad, to take the guise of such a lowly creature, but now I've watched your stupid planet long enough I think I can see why."

Why _what?_ He stops suddenly, and glares at me. "Why they chose to be _moogles_, of course. It's so pathetically easy to magnify the power, if you pretend to be a moogle." He continues on his march again, oblivious to my confusion. This is...too strange. I can hear him, see him, like I never have before and no matter how many nonsense rhymes he spouts I can still feel the sense in them!

"And tell me, Mene, how long do you think there has been a Desert Palace here in these sands?"

Well, at least he's asked me something I know the answer to. "About a thousand years. The Donnans built it as a stronghold and capital after the City of Donna was destroyed by the Summoners in the -"

"Kitten," he says smugly, still walking, "you are very, very wrong." Pace, pace, pivot. "The Donnans built something called Mastor Castle. Once the Summoners had finally rooted out their civilisation for good, they renamed it 'the Keep of Rydia', to honour one of their heroes of legend. And when the dwarves came down their cunning siege tunnels and killed every last caller in his sleep, it was Underhame for no less than three hundred years, while they deepened the earthworks and made it more beautiful than any other race knew how. Then they left too, oh, it matters not why. What matters, dear child -" He turns again, for the fourth time this speech. It's hypnotic... "- is that this 'Desert Palace' you so confidently came to has been The Desert Palace for less than two years. Two out of one thousand...the power is unimaginable..."

"Wh-what? I stammer.

He halts by the bookcase. "You read much, little one."

"Yesss..." The consonant lingers for a second, very, very confused.

"Do you read...Namingway?" He says the word delicately, as if to avoid making a mistake.

"Not much, no. I'm not religious -"

He laughs loudly and thrusts a graceful hand into the shelves. A flash of colour - The book thunks into my arms almost before I've seen it. "Fool." It's - it's as alive, as colourful, as he is, but the leather is as black as night. "Show that to your friend, then, and see what he has to tell you about it."

I turn the book around slowly, feeling the old, old leather under my paws. This is _so_ an original... The cover is the same black, and bordered in little pressed-in sigils, too small for me to decipher in this strange light...and the title...

"And good_night_, Mene. You will return to me once you finally understand," he declares, as the gilded letters, untouched by time, sear their way into my mind.

**_THE BOOK OF NAMES _**  
by **NAMASANGITI**

I try to find the meaning, stare helplessly at the book in my hands, as the night of perception fades around me and the world I know reaches out a hand to claim me back.

*

Smoke...what is this? There shouldn't be smoke in this place - it's all corners and floors and black-white space axes - I raise my head from the pillow on the rack and glare round at the torture chamber. It's gone. All of it. All the colours are back and you can't see through the walls any more. I feel cheated, frankly - I knew it was a dream, but it could've been realer than that.

My right foot, sticking out from under my blanket, brushes against paper. Oh, smoke! Artemecion must've been. How the hell did _he_ manage to keep quiet? Hm, I swear I can smell deodourant, though... I reach down to grab the letter-slip, still buried under my bedding.

_**From Stiltzkin to Mene**_

Hello there! I have completed my Journey,   
and now I'm going to go home to Alexandria.

I have found in my journeys that it is a good   
idea to remember how huge Gaia is and how   
much you can learn by getting to know it   
properly. Try to remember this if you ever get   
lost.

I fold the slip in half, and squeeze it between my fingers. Stiltzkin...he always could save me from madness somehow. Every time I've been that close to the edge, he's pulled me back from it - a word or two in a letter, or a flying visit to remind me that there's a wide world outside my post, and he's a part of it. I can picture him now...ankle-deep in damp grass, most likely. When was the last time I _thought_ about damp grass? You know, I haven't even seen grass much since I left Iifa two years ago... 

I cast off my bedding, all ready to go find Mogryo and see about that book of his - 

Oh. _fuck_. Yeah, Mene...you didn't bring a pillow, remember...? ..._which planet is this...?_

* * *

Don't follow the last bit? Just be painfully clichedly obvious, alright? :)


	7. Romeo

**A.N.:** Again, apologies for my absence. RL struck again...some of it was nice, actually, so I should not moan. 

And here is you update...it's a strange one. It doesn't all make sense to me yet, so prepare to just go with it and work it out later. I wrote most of it a while ago, but I wasn't sure when to post it. It would make more sense if I got back to the main-story first, but it occurred at the same time as part five (Mene's hangover) and I thought it might be nice to throw some enigmatic hintness around.If you've played FFIV, you might be able to unravel it a little...

So here we go. Don't let the title fool you...there is nothing romantic in here at all. It's called that for _another_ reason. I'd be interested to know if you can work out why.

* * *

**#7: Romeo**

_The Diary Of Stiltzkin   
Iifa Tree_

They're small. Yellow. Delicate. Rather dulled and dry, but still the most beautiful things I've seen for...too, too long. The things I do to find the answers... I poke my staff into the clump of flowers, and a hornet buzzes out. Hmm...I like insects. They know things I don't. Looks like a good place to stop for a scribble.

I settle on a gnarled patch on the great root of the Tree, pull out my diary, and flick to where I left off yesterday. No, it's not a stuffy great red one. It's a fifth of the size of the standard issues, a tenth of the weight and it doesn't inspire calligraphy. A few words will do - anything that catches the mood in the moment, anything that tells me the place I was. Something I can resurrect and expand on later when I need to, if I need to - I don't need a lot of words. And I walked a long way today and I'll be walking a long way tomorrow - I'm not feeling very polysyllabic.

Oh, those _flowers_. What to write... The name comes unbidden to my pen, drawn by an instinct honed so sharp I can't see it any more; _amberflower_. Yes. A good word. A good place, too - there's a memory around every corner, and not all of them are bad ones. Some of them are pretty cheerful, even... _Memory_ gets scrawled, and _tired_, and _glad_, and then, in big spiky letters, a _FLUMMOXED_. I don't always come back from these journeys with an answer, and this time I didn't even really pack myself a _question_, so I couldn't reasonably expect a lot more at the end of it than confusion and existential dread. But reason is not my strong point, especially not here.

_Mist_. That's pleasantly concise, but it's appeared in my last five entries. I draw a curved mark, to show that I was _thinking_ all this out this afternoon, and then, rather slowly, I add _here_. Oh, Virgo - if there's one way to solve a puzzle like this one, it's the context. Not how or why - it's _where_ that's important; it's the _places_ that'll always show you what's gone wrong. Gaia's old, and she knows a lot, and if you know her like I do you can see every tiny scratch on her surface, clear as moonlight; every place that's been changed from what it should.

And here, something is _seriously_ wrong. 

I've checked it round every law I can think of - asked everyone I can find, every monk in every temple from here to Daguerreo, and there's nothing behind any of it. I cannot find a reason why Gaia should be producing Mist. It's not like rain, or wind, or lava - there's no cycle to it or purpose of it unless humans choose to give it one. And it only shows up on one little landmass and one accursed tree -

I wish I could ask the tree, really. There's probably something it isn't telling me.

Well. _Tree_, then - if I find out more later I can cross-reference everything to now. Why do I do all this? Maybe it's like Orphichus said in the Book of Stars (not the cheap version you get printed on birthday cards, the _real_ one, which no-one bothers to read any more); most moogles are here to write things down, but some moogles are here to write down why we have to write things down. It's called _reality_ by some old fools, and most people who know that quote get the wrong end of the stick about it anyway. I'm _writing this down_. He never said anyone had to read this stuff.

But they will do. Eventually.

_Time_. Time, time, time... Why _time_? Because it fits. I think it's the right word, and that, I have learned, matters more than anything. My words are my wits, and I live by them - I've been on the highroad too long not to trust myself. The Mognet troops will never get that - that taste you get of being too close to the edge... If I had a sword, I'd be good with it by now, and it'd have a hardened, deadly edge. Or a crossbow I knew how to aim. Or a fishing line I knew how to live off. But what I've got is my vocabulary, so I've honed that instead. They'll never understand...oh, they'll talk about Namingway, say he was 'born woth it' or 'divinely blessed' or anything that doesn't say that he travelled the world for over ten years and wrote his poems everywhere from meadows to volcanoes. So what if he was divinely blessed?

He made out right from the start that he was a very special moogle. If he hadn't...then I'd be a good deal less paranoid...

There's a vine down there, as thick as my arm - snaking around the great root in a parasitic spiral. Lke - like Mist is - oh, it's trying to tell me something. I chew my pen for a second, calculating the name in my head. _Falaji_. It sounds...almost Cleyran, really, but it has just the bite I wanted it to have. It's good. I'm glad I chose springtime to come back this way - first, I can see the living hand of Gaia drawing it from the grasp of the dead one. Spring (I add _spring_) is healthier for a place and a lot more revealing than winter. Secondly, it's changeover week, which means I have an evens chance of sneaking past the moogle - he'll be either confused, asleep, packing, or not here at all. Oh, I _like_ moogles - but it wouldn't do to have them know where I was all the time, would it?

There was no-one at post when I came by a few days ago, which means that they'll probably be some disoriented rookie down there now. Shame it's not going to be Mene - the kit swore blind he wouldn't come back here if I dragged him. Hm, he'll have that _vairë_ I sent him by now - wonder where he took it? I'm always behind on the Mognet gossip; comes of not liking the way they wander mindlessly over this planet without paying the slightest scrap of attention to what it is or where it's going. I'm currently wondering when Mene's going to drop out. He's not quite like them. He's going somewhere, even if he doesn't know where it is. (I have my suspicions. I'm a very suspicious person. And I don't much like this particular suspicion. He told me about the dreams once, and they sound a bit like mine only backwards).

I jot down another thinking-curve and the name beside it; _Mene_. About the only person in the world to ever really get to me. I _do_ like company, don't get me wrong - but it's the same way as I love Gaia. I have to travel around and know as many places as possible, so I can't stay anywhere for long, not even the most beautiful and fascinating places. Seven years I've been travelling, and I've met so many people, overnighted on the highways and byways with so many different moogle-boys, and only one of them ever crosses my mind. It worries me sometimes, but so long as it doesn't interfere with the book I suppose it's harmless.

I look over the jumble of words - mist, memory, tree, time - and shake my head. It'll come to me later - hopefully before I get too far away. It's easier to work things out closer to the source. Now. It's getting close to sundown; I ought to find shelter soon - maybe even in the little nest-shack on the lower roots, if it's unoccupied right now. It probably shouldn't be, but it is the tail-end of changeover.

I pick myself up and brush the dirt off my khakis. I'd've sat on my _vairë_ but it needs a wash - I was using it as a facemask the other day, trying to ward off the fumes down there in the underearth, and now it stinks of Mist and moogle-breath. Worth it, though. I don't think anyone else had ever been down that road, and that's _real_ travelling for you. Took me ages to jack the elevator on - usual problem with magical mechana; the stuff can tell where I come from, and doesn't like it much. That one was more stubborn than normal. I had to rename everything in Caranyar before it would work, and unhook it afterwards too.

I pack up the notebook, pick up the staff, and settle into the loping trot that's carried me to the four corners of Gaia. Not far, with any luck - I pound down the thin root, letting it coast lower, then jump onto the thick horizontal one as they cross each other. I make for the posthouse, back towards the tree...there. Empty. Which is good, because I'm knackered. I open the door, see the tiny space within, and breathe in the hazy cloud of memory. This is the same place as it used to be. Neater, maybe - blankets all folded up, floor swept and bookshelf bare - but my feet still remember this place. It's not often I have to go somewhere twice.

I throw off my pack and untie my headscarf, wrap it around the head of the staff and lean the whole apparatus against the wall. There. Now if I do get some kit diarist barging in here later this evening they'll maybe have the respect not to wake me up. That's the other reason I don't listen to Mognet gossip; too much of it is about me, and they still never get anywhere near the truth.

*


	8. The Whole Mad Circus

**A.N.:** And welcome back to Mene's fuzzy pink head. I do have more Stiltzkin to do, but this plopped out first and the thread is so out of order already that I can't be bothered hanging around waiting for the right chapter to come along... This is actually finally getting to where I wanted it to get, by a very round-about route.

FFIV fans among you are probably going to figure out what the hell is going on. The rest of you can just sit there and suffer. ^_^ 

Er...a few sigs might be nice. Might be. I'll keep posting anyway, but I didn't get any last time and I know you love us really...

* * *

**#8: The Whole Mad Circus**

_The Diary Of Mene   
The Library, Desert Palace_

He's been like this for hours - sitting there, frantically turning pages, and glaring so hard that something's going to spontaneously combust. Mogryo has a truly magnificent glare - it's so loaded and dangerous that it makes me feel irrationally guilty just because I'm in the same room as that expression. It's a glare that says _"You did something and now you'll have to pay for it."_ Only I don't know quite how a book, however sacred, is going to pay for it. I came up here with it earlier and told him that Kuja gave it to me, and he flew off the handle before I could explain any further.

"Mogryo?" I try.

His head shoots up, bringing the Glare with it. I fight the urge to curl up into a little ball of fuzz. "What." See, not even questions any more. Just answers.

"Have you - found anything - wrong with it?" My voice is wobbling; I must sound like a four-year-old moogle-girl at scribe school.

He slams it shut and pounds on the cover. "_LOOK_ at it! It's betraying everything it stands for!"

"Mogryo?"

"It's supposed to be the Book Of Names, damnit! You can't put the wrong name on the cover!"

His proclamation bounces off the painted walls of the Library. It's a wonder the stained-glass windows don't break. I swallow nervously. "So, it's the same book, then?"

"No. You can see it as well as I can." He points accusingly at the gold word on the black cover. "Names are important, Mene..." He trails off, and I realise that he's crying, and he's been crying for quite some time.

I walk over to him, sigh softly, and take the book from between his tight-clenched paws. "It's only a name, Mogryo."

"But it's the name of the Prophet - and when you change the name you change the meaning of him! That bastard tried to change the Third Prophet."

I - I'm probably imagining things, but I swear I can feel the book tingling. I look at the name again, graven in gilt calligraphy. _NAMASANGITI_. "It still sounds a bit like Namingway."

"It's not the same. The number's wrong." His head sinks down between his knees, leaving his pompom protruding at an angle.

"What?"

"Names are numbers. The _khisab al nim*_ - the number of your name has a meaning. Sindai wrote it in the Book of Truths. That's why the Book of Names has twenty-eight chapters, one for each true letter, one for each Name of Eternity," he replies, somewhat muffled.

"Oh," I say, pretending that I have the faintest clue. A flicker of a voice sounds in my head... _"...this 'Desert Palace' you so confidently came to has been The Desert Palace for less than two years..."_ I shake my head, try to follow it, but it's gone now. "I must say, though," I say distractedly, "Namasangiti isn't really a name you can see anyone calling her new kit by -"

"It's Cleyran**," he says shortly. "It means 'the chanting of the name'."

"Oh." I've been saying that a lot lately. "Well...isn't that what he did? Wrote the Book of Names?"

"It's not right," he says, pompom quivering.

I sit down beside him, book in my hands. "Does that mean he wasn't a moogle? A lot of humans think he was a human -"

"He was a moogle. He just wasn't from here."

"Oh." I feel that more is required. "Where was he from?"

"The moon."

I stop breathing. It probably isn't worth the effort any more.

"They come from the moon, where all moogles first came from, and they give us the Books of wisdom, one by one. We all spend many lifetimes meditating on the Books, and the fifth prophet is going to lead all the Enlightened Ones back to the moon again."

I blink a few times and then say the first thing that enters my head. "Which moon?"

"_The_ moon. The only moon. The blue one's just a heresy painted on the sky by a false god. When people get enlightened by the Fourth Prophet it's going to vanish. It's not mentioned in the Book of Stars, you see."

"Oh." It suddenly occurs to me that religion is ridiculous and I am about to vocalise this statement, possibly obscenely, when the door creaks open. Framed on the threshold is our new employer.

"Good morning, little spirits." He stands in the doorway under the coloured light of the great windows in the west of the Library, with the whole spectrum shining in his hair. I freeze at the sight of him; no different from my dream, a dream in which everything else was changed, a dream that was at least partly _real_. He - he's a magician, isn't he? And not in a book - he's a real-life magician.

Mogryo springs upright and levels the Glare at him. "Good. Morning." he says, tone very fervently implying that it is not.

"So this is what happens when I put a wolf among the kittens." He smiles widely, and a patch of red illuminates his teeth.

"Why did you change the book?" snaps Mogryo.

"I did no such thing. Those stupid Cleyrans did that." Mogryo's jaw drops in theological outrage. "And I have something to show you, faeries. My new experiments. Come with me." He turns and strides off into the Shadow Chamber.

We look at each other, him in anger, me in confusion. Mogryo scowls and stomps off after him; I follow, still carrying the book.

We process through the Shadow Chamber, a room which seems to me to be missing its earth-packed coffin, and up to the highest gallery of the Stairwell. I grit my teeth and look straight ahead, focussing rigidly on how much I hate this room in the vain hope that I might forget why. Hangover from Iifa, I suppose - I still can't _stand_ heights.

We step one by one into the portal at the apex of the twisted chamber, and when I emerge into the Hall, disoriented, I see Mogryo disappearing through the next one. I take a second to lean against the wall and give in to the giddiness I feel inside and out. I'm out of my depth today - thrashing about and not finding anything to hold on to, cursed to drift aimlessly on the waves of a world gone mad. Kuja is a creep, Mogryo is a nutbar, and I'm - standing around cuddling a book that they both think they gave me and I think has nothing to do with either of them. I look down, pat it gently on the spine. I feel strangely sorry for Namin - Namasang - oh, whoever he is. I wonder what he would've said to me about this. Maybe he really was a prophet. If he was...I think I'd feel even sorrier for him.

I step through the portal, and this time I try to enjoy it - that feeling of falling upwards. It's very liberating, in a way - breaching the dull constraints of reality for a few seconds.

There's an airship at the Palace dock - the biggest, bluest airship I ever saw in my life. Mogryo is standing on the dock like a statue and Kuja is posing on the pier like the ringmaster in the middle of the circus. And between them, muzzled, hobbled, and leashed to Kuja's upraised wrist, are two chocobos.

At least one of us must be irretrievably insane, then.

*

* * *

**CASE NOTES:** *This is one of the many Middle Eastern traditions that involves numerising the alphabet for the purpose of soothsaying. The Hebrew-based Geomatria is the best-known of these (666, the Number of the Beast, and all that), but I went with the Khisab al Nim because I'm a little more familiar with Arabic, and besides, the prophetic uses of it are more fun. :) The different systems all have one thing in common; that your number is part of your soul, and cannot be changed.

**He's lying; it's Sanskrit. It's the name of a Buddhist meditation god.

  
_So how many religions are you ripping off in this?_   
Um...Buddhism, Jainism, Qabbalism, Islam, and Final Fantasy IV. So far.   
_Hm. Do you know what happens to heretics on the Lower Planes, then?_   
Haven't a clue. Why? Is it bad?   
_I thought you didn't._   
Er, Plato?   
_Yes?_   
Do _you_ know?   
_Of course not. What d'ya take me for? Some sort of sadist?_   
Aaah...okay, then.


End file.
